


Angst to Fluff Amis

by Sunfreckle



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Multi, Tumblr Prompts, chapter summaries for each ficlet, you give me angst I give you fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-02-26 12:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18717457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: A collection of ficlets first posted on tumblr, for a game where I asked for angst promtps and turned it into fluff instead.Featuring some urban fantasy, a Beauxbatons AU, some canon era and a silly game of D&D.





	1. Roommates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Courfeyrac just challenged Enjolras to a duel for the honour of Combeferre, who loves them both.   
> (Platonic, Modern AU).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Deb <3

It’s been very cold lately, which means Courfeyrac resembles a humanoid tangle of wool and frizzy hair when he enters Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment. His entrance is complicated even further by the door barely opening. The reason for  _that_ is the enormous amount of clutter on the living room floor.

“Cosy.” Courfeyrac says laughingly, squeezing through the narrow opening and shuffling into the room. “What a  _sty_.”

Enjolras gets up to greet him, extending a hand to hep Courfeyrac step over the piles of books and papers on the floor. “It isn’t my fault,” he assures his friend. “Not this time.”

“No, this one’s on me,” Combeferre confirms, emerging from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. He smiles to see Courf squirming slightly on the couch, still getting out of all his winter gear, and skilfully navigates the labyrinth of belongings strews across the floor.

Enjolras watches with a fond smile how Combeferre manages to squeeze Courfeyrac’s shoulder in greeting without losing his balance or tipping the coffee pot, before safely sitting down in the only chair that is still free to sit on.

“Enj wasn’t here last night,” he says, by way of explanation. “And I got distracted.”

“I can see that,” Courfeyrac says fondly, looking at the chaos around him while he unwinds his second scarf.

Enjolras knows just as well as Courfeyrac does that this is what it looks like when Combeferre gets in an organizing mood. He’s used to it, and honestly, ten to one that next time it will be him upturning the apartment. When he’s lost something, or when he’s researching a piece, or planning an event.

“I think there’s cups on the floor behind you, Enj,” Combeferre says.

“Clean ones?” Enjolras says confusedly turning around in his fauteuil.

“ _Yes_ , clean ones,” Combeferre huffs. “I wouldn’t serve you coffee from dirty cups.”

“Well…” Enjolras hums. “I think we’ve just established that you’re a pretty terrible roommate.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes, but Courfeyrac makes a deeply affronted noise. “You take that back!”

“Shan’t,” Enjolras teases, fishing the mugs up from the floor.

“If you don’t want him, he can be  _my_  roommate from now on,” Courfeyrac threatens.

“Poor Marius,” Combeferre laughs and Enjolras laughs with him, but right at that moment something smacks him full in the face, nearly making him drop the mugs.

It’s Courfeyrac’s woolly mitten.

Enjolras splutters. “Courf what the—”

“You take back your slander or I  _demand_  satisfaction.” Courfeyrac is standing up on the couch, all indignance and frizzy hair. The frost is doing a number on his curls.

“Courf no,” Combeferre protests, but Courfeyrac waves at him:

“Hush Ferre, I am defending your honour.”

“I don’t  _want_  my—”

“ _Satisfaction!_ ”

“It’s not slander if it’s true,” Enjolras insists. “I have no problem admitting I am a terrible roommate as well, if that makes you feel better.”

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes threateningly. “I don’t think you’re are taking this seriously. Choose your weapon, Sir.”

Enjolras shuts his mouth. Surely Courfeyrac can’t be serious. “Courf I’m not fighting you.”

“Then take back your libel and slander!”

“Libel only applies to written statements, you  _know_  this!”

The couch creaks dangerously under Courfeyrac’s threatening bounce forward. “Less law more eating your words, Monsieur Enjolras!”

“Okay, hold up!” Combeferre gets to his feet, drawing himself up to his full, not inconsiderable height. He raises one hand at each of them, looking warningly at Courfeyrac first and then at Enjolras. “Courf, as your second—”

“Wait what?” Courfeyrac protests, taken by surprise.

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. “You mean you  _wouldn’t_  choose me to be your second in a duel?”

“Well, obviously,” Courfeyrac says. “Considering I’m fighting Enjolras, but—”

“Good,” Combeferre interrupts him, I thought so. So, as your second, I will see to it that this is resolved in the best way possible.” He nods at Enjolras. “And since I am obviously also Enjolras’ second, I will deliberate with myself.”

“Hold up,” Courfeyrac complains. “That’s not—”

“Combeferre would absoltuley be my second,” Enjolras corroborates emphatically.

“Yes, very good,” Combeferre nods. “And as both your seconds, I find you both incompetent to stand duel and will therefore take your place and fight myself.”

He stands very still for a moment, while Courfeyrac looks slightly disgruntled and Enjolras tries not to laugh.

“It was a close call,” Combeferre says solemnly. “But I think I won.”

“Ugh,” Courfeyrac grumbles, letting himself sink down onto the couch again. “Let me lovingly fight for your honour, Ferre.”

“Should I challenge him to a duel now, to defend you?” Enjolras offers, clambering over the coffee table, mugs still in hand. He deposits them in Courfeyrac’s lap so he can clear a space beside him on the couch.

“Yes you should,” Courfeyrac says emphatically.

“That’s going to be awkward,” Combeferre shakes his head. “Because then you’d have to be second to us both. And I’d still have to be the observing doctor.” He balances the coffee pot on top of a filing box and makes room for himself on the other side of Courfeyrac. “There,” he says, sitting down as well. “That’s better.”

“Much,” Courfeyrac agrees, now comfortably flanked by the two of them. “Is there sugar?”

Enjolras smiles as Combeferre makes a sugar bowl appear from a place where, logically, sugar should have no business being. Even more extraordinary, a moment later a bottle of cream appears.

“I take it back, Ferre,” Enjolras says, dumping almost half of it into his mug. “You’re a  _wonderful_  roommate.”

Combeferre smiles at him, and in between them, Courfeyrac just manages to make a deeply exasperated noise halfway through his first gulp of coffee.


	2. Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Grantaire is the one tasked with preventing Enjolras from fulfilling his quest.  
> (Romantic, Modern AU).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lily~

“I’m going home, R,” Enjolras says, rather exhasperated. His boyfriend has been trying to keep him from leaving for about 20 minutes now and Grantaire isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is.

“Um, no, you’re not,” Grantaire insists, actually placing himself between Enjolras and the front door.

Enjolras gives him an amused scoff. “You’re going to physically limit my freedom of movement, are you?”

Grantaire groans. “Enjolras, can you just, not? Just stay here because I asked you to.”

“No,” Enjolras refuses. It’s the principle of the thing. “You might have tried that tactic before you hid my damn shoes.”

“I’m working with what I’ve got here—” Grantaire says shamelessly, a grin flashing on his face.

“Well so am I and I am walking out that door and going home, right now,” Enjolras declares. Having to look for his shoes (and keys, and wallet) while Grantaire followed him around the house giving deeply unhelpful hints was more annoying that cute actually and what’s—

“You  _know_  I don’t like surprises,” he says. “So you might as well tell me now what it is that I’m not supposed to see back at my apartment.”

But Grantaire always was stubborn. Infinitely stubborn. Enjolras has protested the claim that he’s the incessant one several times. So it’s not really a surprise when R refuses.

“Nope, absolutely not. Courf would kill me.”

Enjolras smirks. “So it’s Courf’s idea then.”

Grantaire’s face falls with exquisite sense of humorous timing. “…no it’s not.”

“Very convincing,” Enjolras laughs. “Come on, let me through.” He looks at Grantaire, weight shifted to one hip, waiting for him to step aside. He knows Grantaire won’t let this come down to physical strength. He’d never.

For a very long moment Grantaire looks at him with all the disgruntled conflict he can muster, and then he suddenly steps aside.

“Okay,” he shrugs and retreats to the other end of the room.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Enjolras sighs. “I’ll see you later then, yeah? At the surprise that Courf is definitely not involved with that is definitely not at my apartment.”

There is an answer of sorts, a soft, friendly sound, but it’s not Grantaire’s voice. It’s the melodic twang of a string.

Enjolras spins round, staring wide eyed at where Grantaire is sitting with his guitar. He’s too surprised to even say something, practically standing glued to his spot while Grantaire calmly tunes the instrument. He glances up at Enjolras when he’s done, the faintest hint of a smug little smile just present on his face, and then he bows his head again, beginning to play a genuine melody.

Slowly, Enjolras lets enough breath into his chest to speak again. “…what are you doing.”

Grantaire’s smile widens, but he doesn’t look up. “I’m playing you a song.”

His fingers move over the strings so naturally and the music sounds so effortless that Enjolras feels a swirl of admiration twisting up with pure indignation.

“You  _never_  want to play for me,” he says accusingly. “You never want to play for anyone.”

This is the first time he’s heard Grantaire play. The first time. After more than a year of being blown off with endless self-depreciating dismissals. Not even the change in their damn relationship status had made a difference in that. And of course he plays beautifully. Of course he does.

“Well I’m playing for you now,” Grantaire says, looking up with a smile that would have been warm and innocent as sunshine, if it hadn’t been for the mischief and triumph dancing in his eyes.

Enjolras isn’t even trying to puff up his chest, it just happens. “Really,” he says. “You’re going to waste the first time you play for me on emotional blackmail.  _Really_.”

“You forget, dear Enjolras,” Grantaire says cheerfully. “That I Have neither morals nor value.”

Enjolras looks at him, into those merry grey eyes that do not even need to watch the clever fingers that are coaxing music from the strings.

“Oh you’re so full of shit,” he grunts, and then he sits down, listens to the guitar, and lets Grantaire wash all his resentful indignation away with music.


	3. Skates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Éponine was a fool and now because of that Cosette got hurt.  
> (Romantic, Modern AU).

It takes Éponine about forty seconds to get to Cosette but it feels much  _much_  longer than that.

“Sette!” she squeaks. “Sette are you okay!”

“I told you I couldn’t do this,” Cosette groans, trying to sit up.

“You did ice scating!” Éponine says frantically, lowering herself down next to her girlfriend. “You studied ballet!”

“That doesn’t mean I can deal with wheels on my feet!” Cosette laughs wincingly.

Éponine grimaces. Cosette did move about as graceful as a new-born deer wearing her rollerblades, she shouldn’t have moved ahead so quickly expecting her to catch up.

“ _Ow_ ,” she groans touching her leg and Éponine feels a small flurry of panic.

How bad do you have to be at dating to injure your girlfriend on the third time you take her out. She’s a  _disaster_. “Here,” she says hastily. “Let me help.”

She unclasps the rollerblades and works them off Cosette’s feet, who breathes a badly disguised sigh of relief.

“I feel like reverse Cinderella,” she giggles.

“I’m glad you think this is romantic,” Éponine mutters. She looks up into Cosette’s face. “I’m  _really_  sorry. This is my fault, I should have listened, and I  _shouldn’t_  have left you behind.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry,” Cosette urges. Something sly slips into her smile. “But you make a good point. You shouldn’t have let go of my hand. We should make that a new dating policy.”

She tries to get up, but Éponine already sees her right leg wobble dangerously and she quickly grabs her by the hand, trying to prevent her from trying to stand.

“Wait, wait, let me help.”

Éponine takes off her own rollerblades.  _Hers_  go over her shoes so she can actually stand op properly now. And come to think of it, between Cosette clearly having done some kind of injury to her leg and wearing nothing but her thick socks right now, maybe the way to salvage this situation is pretty obvious.

“Can you hold these for a sec?” Éponine asks and she puts her own as well as Cosette’s rollerblades in her arms.

Cosette takes them on instinct and before she can voice the confusion on her face Éponine leans towards her, crouching, and wraps an arm around her shoulders and one around her legs under her knees.

“Up you go,” Éponine grins, muscles straining as she lifts a squeaking Cosette off the ground, firmly scooped up in her arms.

“Ponine!” she gasps and she tries to steady herself despite having to hug the rollerblades to her chest.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to let you fall, not this time.” Cosette is a plump girl, but Éponine is strong, and quite a bit taller.

“Where are we even going?” Cosette giggles. “You can’t carry me all the way home.”

“Watch me,” Éponine grins. But no, she can’t. She can carry her to the nearest park bench though. There’s a picnic in her backpack, and a first aid kit. Together they should make a pretty good start to getting this date back on track again.

Then again, considering the fact that she’s presently carrying Cosette through a sunny park with her face hidden against her neck, maybe she didn’t do so badly after all.


	4. Cursed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Enjolras got cursed and only Grantaire, who hates his guts, can break it.  
> (Urban Fantasy).
> 
> Cw alcohol mention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Rose ^_^

It’s the banging on the door that wakes him. Grantaire raises his head, grogginess clouding his mind. He feels heavy, like the blood in his veins has thickened to lead.

The knocking doesn’t stop and Grantaire forces himself to his feet. Maybe it’s Joly, or Bossuet, he could use them right now. He shakes his head in an effort to clear his mind, but it doesn’t help. As he walks to answer the door he feels so unsteady he’d almost suspect himself of being drunk, but he hasn’t touched a drop, he’s sure of that.

Whoever is at the door stops assaulting it when he approaches and Grantaire smiles in anticipation of who he expects to see. If not Joly or Bossuet, then perhaps Jehan, in any case it will make him feel— Grantaire’s smile falters as the door opens. It’s Enjolras. Of course it had to be Enjolras.

Enjolras who he can’t stand the sight of. Enjolras who he does not want to be near.

“What do you want?” he asks gruffly, turning away from the door immediately. It hurts to look at Enjolras, with his beautiful face and his gold-spun hair.

“I—” Enjolras begins behind him. “R? Won’t you look at me?”

“Don’t call me that,” Grantaire bites, turning around with his face twisted into a frown. “My friends call me that.” Enjolras has never been his friend, never will be his friend. Grantaire knows all too well that Enjolras has never cared about him.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says hesitantly, taking a single step over the threshold. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to what.” Grantaire draws back again. It hurts just to listen to him. Enjolras with his brilliant words. Why has he come all the way over here just to force him to listen. He has no right. Oh Grantaire could hate him for this. He  _does_  hate him for this.

“Didn’t mean to upset you,” Enjolras continues, still with that voice full of painful sincerity.

“Then leave me alone,” he says. “I don’t want you here.”

Enjolras looks sad.  _So_  sad. And Grantaire wishes he wouldn’t. He wishes he’d have the fucking decency to listen to a simple request. He has never wanted to be around Grantaire so  _why is he here now._

“I— I’ll go,” Enjolras says, nearly taking a step back. “But…only if you’ll let me give you a proper goodbye.”

Grantaire stares at him. “What?”

Enjolras is still standing there, all golden hair and blue eyes and unwanted attention. “Will you allow me to kiss you goodbye?”

Something with claws curls in Grantaire’s chest. “Is this a joke to you?” he spits. Oh why won’t he just fucking go, and leave him alone like he always has before.

But Enjolras’ face is pale as he shakes his head. “No joke,” he say, quietly. “Let me kiss you goodbye and I’ll…I’ll go and you never have to see me again if that’s what you want.”

Just the thought of it makes Grantaire’s head grow lighter and with an impatient movement, jerking angrily with his shoulders, he offers Enjolras his cheek.

“No, R-Grantaire—” Enjolras face is far too close and far too earnest, Grantaire can feel the sincerity of it mock his entire being. “I need your permission. I’ll go, I’ll leave, I promise, but only if you’ll permit me t—”

“Fuck, what do you  _want_  from me, Enjolras!” Grantaire snaps, his patience tearing at the seams. It feels like something is squeezing the blood from his heart. “ _Fine_ , okay?” he says bitterly. “ _I permit it_. Anything to get you to leave me the fuck al—”

Grantaire blinks, his thoughts stuttering to a halt. The lead drains from his mind and limbs and his heart gives a familiar tell-tale jolt, when his eyes look into a far too familiar face.

“Enjolras?” he says uncertainly.

“Oh thank god,” Enjolras breathes, his face flooding with relief and before Grantaire can ask him what on earth is going on, his friend makes a frantic noise and pulls his sleeve away from his right wrist.

A gold band tears itself into two halves before Grantaire’s bewildered eyes and the sharp smell of vicious magic fills the air. The bracelet falls to the ground with a dull metallic clang.

Enjolras clutches his arm, sucking air in through his teeth and swearing under his breath.

“What the hell,” Grantaire blurts and he reaches out for Enjolras’ hand without thinking. “Are you okay? Did it burn you?”

“No,” Enjolras says hastily. “I mean, yes I’m fine. R, can we—”

But Grantaire isn’t quite listening. He’s staring at the torn gold strip lying on his hallway floor. “Is that a  _curse_?” he says in dismay. Black symbols line the inside of the broken bracelet, the edges of them still smouldering slightly as the power to them fades.

“…yes,” Enjolras mutters. “It is.”

Grantaire glances up for a moment, halfway to leaning down to pick up the two halves for closer inspection. “Who the hell put a cursed band on you?”

“I put it on myself,” Enjolras says uncomfortably. “It was a present.” His voice takes on a bitter note. “A  _farewell_  present, from Guillaume.”

Grantaire winces, getting back up with the curse-bearer in his hand. The metal is almost warm. “Posh Guillaume who wants to marry you?”

“I don’t think she wants that anymore,” Enjolras answers stiffly.

“Enj you didn’t seriously put on a piece of jewellery that was given to you by a  _sorcerer_  as a farewell after you turned down his  _marriage_ proposal.” Grantaire gives him a bewildered look. “For one of the most revolutionary minds in modern magic you can be  _really_  dense, and that’s coming from  _me_.”

“Yes,” Enjolras grimaces, shuffling his feet. “Well—”

“So what the hell did Guillame do?” Grantaire says, looking down at the inscription. “Did he try…to…” The symbols are not in any language of magic Grantaire uses, but he can still read it.  _May the person whose good opinion it would most hurt you to loose have their feelings for you exactly reversed_.

Grantaire looks up, into Enjolras’ nearly anxious face.

“You don’t remember, do you,” he mutters.

“I…” Grantaire frowns. “I remember feeling like shit and…” He remembers  _hating Enjolras_.

Grantaire drops the bracelet.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras blurts out. “For getting you cursed along with me. It’s over though, you broke it.”

“How?” Grantaire gapes, kicking the twisted metal across the floor and into a corner. He remembers his mind dripping with lead and his heart squeezing itself empty. And  _hating Enjolras_.

Enjolras’ mouth pulls into a thin line. “I suppose Guillame thought it would be fitting that I should beg someone for a kiss.”

Grantaire’s heart does something treacherous and his face grows hot for a second. It’s through a haze of sickening feelings, but he remembers that too now, Enjolras begging permission to kiss him. “Wait…” He looks straight into Enjolras’ eyes. “ _I’m_  the person whose good opinion you’d be most hurt to lose?”

Enjolras’ cheeks go pink, but he doesn’t look away. “I spent too long trying to find out why you of all people would want to believe in me,” he mutters. “The thought that you wouldn’t anymore… I can’t—” There’s a fearful glitter to the blue of his eyes for a second. “I don’t want that.”

The mix of astonishment and happiness that pours into Grantaire’s mind is enough to silence him for a moment, but then a worried thought occurs to him. “How long did it last?” he asks. “The curse.”

“Eight hours and forty minutes, give or take,” Enjolras answers immediately.

Once again, Grantaire gapes. “Eight— you mean you got that bracelet this  _morning_? How did you even know it had worked? How did you even know it was  _me_?”

“You weren’t at the meeting!” Enjolras says defensively.

Grantaire groans, running a hand through his hair. “I miss a single opportunity to hear you speak and you immediately suspect foul play.”

“Well I had literally been cursed earlier that day,” Enjolras reminds him.

“Oh I wasn’t implying your conclusion was unreasonable,” Grantaire grimaces. “Would have been plausible even without the curse.”

When he stops pulling his own head back Enjolras is looking at him, with a soft kind of expression that Grantaire doesn’t think he has ever seen before. “I knew it would be you,” he says. “I was sure. As soon as Ferre deciphered the curse I knew. I…I didn’t need this to happen to know that you’re— I didn’t say something before, because I didn’t know how, yet.”

Grantaire leans back against the wall, vaguely considering how ridiculous it is that they’re still in the hallway, and that the door is still open. He’s trying very hard not to think about what Enjorlas didn’t know how to say. Because right now he’s looking at him like…like… “It didn’t even work,” he says softly. “Not really.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asks, drawing just a little closer.

“It didn’t reverse my feelings,” he says. He had still thought Enjolras was beautiful. Still known he was brilliant. “It just…turned them against me.”

Enjolras looks at him very intently for what seems like half an eternity.

Grantaire swallows. “So I guess you can tell Guillame his curses are shit.”

A flicker of amusement dances in the blue. “If he still has ears left to speak to. Jehan found out first, about what happened.”

“Ouch,” Grantaire says, but his expression is not very compassionate.

Once again there’s a short silence between them, but then Enjolras says: “Do you still want me to leave?”

Grantaire turns his eyes towards the ceiling for a moment. “Seeing as I’m no longer under the influence of literal mind-altering magic, no I don’t.” He never wants Enjolras to leave.

When he looks back down Enjolras is closer than he was before.

“…do you still want the kiss?”

Grantaire’s heart does that same treacherous thing again. “I thought it was a goodbye kiss,” he says, steadying his voice.

Enjolras is close enough now that Grantaire has to look up to meet his eyes. They look at each other long enough for their expressions to go nearly serious, but then Enjolras speaks again:

“If you want, it could be a would you go out with me kiss instead.”

Grantaire has no control whatsoever over the smile that spreads across his face at those words. But this time, it is an infinitely sweeter sensation than being under any kind of spell.


	5. Shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Enjolras just caught Grantaire in a lie, and not a harmless white one.  
> (Romantic, Modern AU).

Enjolras never tries to sneak up on Grantaire, he honestly doesn’t. It’s just that Grantaire is notoriously easy to sneak up on sometimes. Because as lively and loud as he is, he has these moments where he seems to zone out, going completely quiet and momentarily unable to hear any noise around him. It’s a little disconcerting sometimes. Enjolras is so used to Grantaire’s presence being announced by noise, be it humming or tapping or the erratic movement of objects, that it’s always a bit of a shock to enter a perfectly quiet room and find his boyfriend standing there, wrapped in one of his moments of absent-mindedness.

Grantaire is looking down at something in his hands, staring with nearly unfocussed eyes, and a very odd look on his face. Enjolras steps slow and he tips his head to the side involuntarily to see.

He stops walking.

Grantaire is holding a pair of baby’s shoes.

Enjolras is fairly sure there is absolutely no reason for there to be baby’s shoes anywhere near Grantaire and even less for Grantaire to be looking at them like that, but that is unmistakably what they are. They look like tiny green sneakers. A bit like the kind R has himself. They’re not, of course, they’re more like soft little loafers made to look like sneakers, but they have the aesthetic down. Maybe that’s why he has them? Because they’re like his own pair shrunk down. As a joke?

“R?” Enjolras’ voice is very gentle, but clearly it still startles Grantaire.

His eyes dart up, his head following with a hasty movement. “Oh,” he grins sheepishly. “Sorry I was off for a second.”

Enjolras smiles reassuringly, but he can’t help but notice Grantaire just tried to close his hand around the pair of little shoes. If he’s trying to hide them he’s doing a terrible job.

On the other hand, he himself is clearly not doing a very good job himself of not looking at them too obviously, because Grantaire clears his throat uncertainly and says, with slightly uncomfortable smile:

“Chetta.”

If it had been paired with an eye-roll or a scoff that might have been enough explanation, Enjolras feels like a lot of both their explanations consists of merely the name of one of their friends and a look of mutual understanding. But in this case…

He closes the distance between them and puts an arm around Grantaire. “Chetta gave you these?”

Grantaire nods, opening his hand in a vague gesture.

Enjolras takes one of the shoes. They’re cute. Stupidly cute. And quite useless of course. A child small enough to wear them wouldn’t be walking yet.

Grantaire gives him a slightly helpless look. “I know it’s stupid.”

“What is?” Enjolras asks, looking up from the fake laces.

“Getting sentimental over undersized shoes.” He grimaces. “I’m just. They’re fucking cute okay.” Something tense releases in Grantaire’s shoulders and he tips his head back defyingly like he’s declaring towards the heavens. “I’m a sucker for this stuff and if I had a kid to clothe I would buy them  _so_  much impractical shit.” He waves the shoe in front of Enjolras face. “I’d put these on them and watch them start a bet with themself on how fast they could get rid of them.”

Enjolras can feel he’s smiling and he’s not sure whether that’s in reaction that that image or just because R is suddenly smiling himself, but that smile can’t get past the frankly shocking tangle of surprise that’s unfurling itself in his chest. He looks from Grantaire to the tiny left shoe and back again. “…but you don’t want kids.”

Grantaire’s smile fades. He looks away, but Enjolras has been with him long enough to catch his eye anyway.

“You’ve  _always_  said you don’t want kids,” he presses. That is knowledge he owes to before they were dating even. Whenever it came up in conversations among their friends, in vague plans for the future and happy hypotheticals, Grantaire had been  _vehemently_ against it. Enjolras looks at Grantaire, with each of them still holding one half of that daft pair of shoes.

“Well,” Grantaire mutters. “Easier to say that than to own that I’d be the worst parent on the face of the planet and that no child should be subjected to me.”

He says it pretty matter-of-factly, but it’s been a long time since Enjolras heard Grantaire talk about himself like that and for a moment he’s genuinely shaken. “Do you still feel like that?”

Grantaire hesitates. “…no. I mean. I’ve worked through some of my shit since then.”

Enjolras exhales a short breath of relief and Grantaire places a hand over where Enjolras’ fingers are suddenly digging a little into his side.

“You know I did, you were there for most of it,” he quips.

“Well…good,” Enjolras mutters. “And for the record-” He can hear a bit of old defensiveness slip into his voice, but it’s making Grantaire smile so he leaves it. “I think you’d be a great father, if you wanted to be.”

Grantaire stares at him.

“…what.”

There’s a strange sort of blush rising up from Grantaire’s neck and there’s a jumbled moment of silence before he says: “ _You_  want kids?”

Enjolras makes a thoughtful movement with his head. “I don’t have to,” he says. He looks into Grantaire’s eyes earnestly. “I like the idea of a family. But there’s a lot of ways to build a family.”

“I—” Grantaire looks slightly stunned. “I always thought you were the ‘this is no world to bring a child into’ kind.”

Enjolras frowns slightly at that, both at the implication and at the fact that this is apparently something Grantaire has been thinking about. Maybe while  _he_  was thinking about the same thing. “How are we ever going to build a better world without better people?” he says.

Grantaire’s smile trembles slightly in the corner of his mouth.

“Also,” Enjolras continues. “Adoption.”

Grantaire is still making a very strange face and Enjolras smiles at him bemusedly while his boyfriend drags his hand through his curls a couple times.

“ _Now_  what?” Enjolras grins.

“Nothing,” Grantaire says. “I’m just…your kids would be a force to recon with on the playground.”

Enjolras wrinkles his nose a bit. They would be, of course, but he’s not taking full responsibility here. “Well, they’d be  _our_  kids,” he says.

Grantaire’s grin is no longer sheepish, it’s wide like sunshine and completely out of control. “Don’t say stuff like that,” he begs. “Don’t-”

“Why not?” Enjolras says defiantly. He pulls on Grantaire’s waist, wrapping his other arm around him as well and linking his hands together, slightly squashing the little shoe in between them. “A second ago I didn’t even know raising kids with you was anywhere in the realm of the possible!”

“It’s been more than a second.”

“Shut up.” Enjolras presses a hasty kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I’m not saying we should have kids,” he says seriously. “I’m just saying that we could. Some day.”

Grantaire bites his lip, his pale eyes lit up brightly. “Could we?” His voice is shaking like he’s about to burst out laughing.

“You’re the one gushing over tiny shoes,” Enjolras retorts.

“Touché,” Grantaire says. “But you try to hold this against me and I’ll ask Chetta to get a pair of red ones.”

Enjolras isn’t quite sure what his face just did in response to that, but now Grantaire actually does laugh. Out loud, with that sunshine-bright grin still beaming on his face. And Enjolras laughs with him, softly, and with his arms still wrapped around R’s waist.


	6. Experiments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Enjolras catches Combeferre redhanded, covered in blood.  
> (Romantic, Canon Era).

“I  _seem_  to remember,” said Enjolras with pointed emphasis, “that part of our arrangement was that if  _I_  refrained from ‘littering our rooms with disturbing publications’,  _you_  would leave your medical experiment  _at the university_.”

Combeferre looked appropriately apologetic. He was standing in the dimly lit room, much like a cat caught in the kitchen by a housekeeper, and with the proof of his guilt splattered all over his shirtsleeves. Enjolras had absolutely no desire to know what it was, but it was self-evident that it had once been contained in the vial Combeferre was holding. It smelled suspiciously like blood.

“What  _were_  you doing?” Enjolras inquired, lifting the candle he brought from the bedroom in an effort to make out the full extent of the damage. Luckily Combeferre didn’t seem hurt.

“Merely putting something aside,” he muttered. “As you were already asleep…”

“I see,” Enjolras nodded. “I shall remember to add ‘to prevent you from ending up covered in blood’ to my list of viable responses for whenever you attempt to lecture me on not taking enough rest.” He met Combeferre’s eyes, taking in his somewhat ruffled expression and could not quite repress a smile. “Stay where you are,” he ordered fondly and walked back to the bedroom to fetch the water pitcher and basin from the dresser.

When he returned, he found Combeferre had wrapped the dirty vial in his handkerchief and laid it aside on the table. Enjolras placed both candle and washbasin beside it filling the basin with the pitcher so Combeferre could wash the worst of the blood off his hands.

“Mind you don’t drip on me,” Enjolras warned him and Combeferre obediently dabbed his hands mostly dry on the crumpled handkerchief.

“Now come here, let me help. Before you get…whatever that was all over your clothes.”

Combeferre smiled slightly as Enjolras began to loosen his cravat, but Enjolras made a point of not noticing. He put the cravat safely aside and then unbuttoned Combeferre’s waistcoat, walking around him to lift it carefully off his shoulders and down his arms, in such a way that it would not touch the dark splotches on his sleeves. He draped the waistcoat over a chair, watching Combeferre loosen his bloodied cuffs with fond exasperation.

“However are you going to explain this to the Mme Bisset,” Enjolras said amusedly, drawing near again to help Combeferre out of his soiled shirt. He took care not to dirty his hands and as soon as he was able to pull the shirt off Combeferre’s back he rolled it up so that it could be put away without a danger of leaving any disgusting stains on the furniture.

“I am sure she has long given up on the idea of either of us being respectable young men, Enjolras,” Combeferre replied distractedly. He looked up at him, suddenly smiling, and leaning towards him a little. “I had not thanked you yet,” he said. “For coming to my rescue.”

“Now there’s an idea you had better give up on,” Enjolras said resolutely, stepping out of Combeferre’s reach. “I will  _not_  be kissing you as long as you smell like a medical experiment.”

“Well that is cruel of you,” Combeferre said solemnly. “But I understand.”

Enjolras gave him a long look and then, without saying word, turned around and left the room.

Combeferre let out a fond sound of protest. “Where are you going?”

“To fetch you some soap.”


	7. Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Grantaire is forced to betray his loyalty to Enjolras.  
> (Canon Era).

“Only Grantaire remaining, and then we are complete,” Feuilly pointed out.

Bossuet turned around on his chair, prevented from rising by Joly’s hands still resting on his shoulders. “He came in right behind us,” he said, looking about him in surprise. “I am sure he did.”

“I will find him,” Enjolras replied, before anyone else could. It was no surprise to him that Grantaire found something to distract him on the way to the back room. Even if it was the Corinth that Grantaire considered his domain in particular, he was equally sure of finding familiar faces among the drinkers at the Musain, any of which might have detained him. Their meetings were certainly not so interesting to Grantaire that he could not be distracted from them.

As Enjolras emerged from the backroom in search of him, he found that he merely had to walk to the corner from which there seemed to originate the greatest amount of noise. Several men were talking at once and yet Enjolras could hear Grantaire’s voice above all of them. It was impossible to tell if these were his friends or complete strangers to him, neither the familiarity of his address or his quarrelling tone would give Enjolras any hint, but it was not important. He would ask Grantaire to come with him just once and if he chose not to, he would leave him to his talk.

Enjolras lips had already parted to speak, his hand already outstretched towards Grantaire’s shoulder, when he finally heard his words instead of just his voice. And Grantaire’s words were less drunken and more indignant than Enjolras had ever heard them.

“—so if you wish to mock him,  _by all means_ , but know that you are mocking yourselves. For he will fight for you, even if you have proved yourselves not worth fighting for. You are his people and he will see you free and equal or he will see himself vanquished.”

As Grantaire’s voice grew harsher the others lost their fire and yet he continued:

“And I, who am the worst of you, the worst of you  _all_ , will not even sink so low as to pretend to have the strength to doubt him. I do not. And it gives me leave to despise all of you to your face, because I need only to believe in Enjolras, as he will insist on believing in all of you.”

To this speech there followed a silence, unbroken by further argument, laughter or even the general sound of discomfort. There was merely silence, and Enjolras, feeling as though a shadow had been lifted from a distant corner of his mind, broke it.

“Grantaire,” he spoke clearly and for a moment every pair of eyes seemed upon him. Grantaire stared with the rest of them, his expression shifting from the first colour of surprise to the pallor of dread. So Enjolras smiled, and did his best to place the rest of his appreciation in his words:

“You are wanted, at the meeting.”


	8. Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Enjolras is forced to betray their loyalty to Grantaire.  
> (Romantic, Modern AU).

It’s two in the morning and by now Grantaire is willing to admit that the movie marathon got a little out of hand. Or at least he would, if he hadn’t gotten exactly what he wanted. Because the tv has been on silent for a while now, only the changing colours of the screen still present, lighting a room that is absolutely littered with his friends.

Feuilly and Bahorel are squashed in the narrow two-seater, with Jehan draped across both their laps, their legs dangling over one of the arm rests. One of the fauteuils seems to be filled with blankets, but Grantaire knows that somewhere in there is Courfeyrac, curled into a frizzy-haired ball on Combeferre’s lap. The couch is occupied by Chetta, Bossuet and Joly, on account of it being their couch and on account of Bossuet needing to sprawl out. At the moment that sprawl includes having his legs tangled up with Chetta’s and his arms wrapped around Joly. Grantaire can see all this from his spot on the floor, where he is by now lying on his back, cushioned by several pillows. He doesn’t have a blanket, but he doesn’t need one, because Enjolras is currently lying fully on top of him, his head resting against his chest and both his arms and his unzipped hoodie tucked firmly around him.

The only reason that Grantaire is not asleep, is because he’s too blissfully happy to allow himself to give in to the  drowsiness attempting to pull him under from time to time. Which is why he is currently entangled in a rather sleepy debate on cubism with Marius. Marius, Grantaire suspects, cannot sleep on account of being sandwiched in between Cosette and Éponine, who have both fallen asleep attempting to hug both him and each other where they are lying on the rug. A situation which, while certainly not making Marius _unhappy_ , seemingly doesn’t leave him exactly enough calm to sleep. So, 2 am cubism it is.

“…I just like knowing what I’m supposed to  _see_.” Marius mutters.

Grantaire does his best to lift his head to frown at him without moving so much that he will rouse Enjolras. “That’s not the  _point_ ,” he says. “It’s…it’s visionary. Artistic freedom caught in angles. It allows the image to show the same object form every angle at once and leaves  _you_  to figure out the rest.”

At some point Marius curls started drooping down over his forehead and he does not have his hands free to fix it so Grantaire only gets to see  _one_  eye look at him with a troubled expression.

“I don’t  _like_  that.”

Grantaire huffs in disagreement and almost immediately there is a soft, disgruntled noise from Enjolras. For a moment his head stirs and Grantaire instinctually begins to pet Enjolras’ hair, that usually is the quickest way to incapacitate him. Sure enough, Enjolras stops moving again, apart from maybe nuzzling against Grantaire’s chest a little.

“Marius,” Grantaire grunts. “I’m not moving right now, so please imagine me getting all up in your face over this.” Always convenient to have an imaginary restraint built in into arguments like these.

A smile pulls at the corner of Marius’ mouth. “Okay.”

“Cubism was fucking  _revolutionary_ , man,” Grantaire says, with as much feeling and conviction as he can while scratching Enjolras behind his ears like a cat. “It took centuries of trying to convey depth and space in art and just flipped it on it’s damn head.”

He’s keeping his voice down, of course, not just because of Enjolras, but because he really doesn’t want to be responsible for waking up any of his friends. Still, this is too entertaining to let go.

“It’s  _math_ , Marius. Geometry. The first thing that made math something wildly beautiful…” He sounded dangerously genuine just now, this part he actually means.

There is a short pause from Marius, paired with a pair of silent brown eyes. 

“It looks weird.”

“Marius, I swear t—” Grantaire cuts himself off when he feels Enjolras shake softly against his chest. “Are you laughing at me?” he whispers accusingly, but his treacherous voice is so far too fond to be scolding.

“No,” Enjolras’ smiling voice replies and his head lifts up a little, allowing Grantaire to see the sleepy affection on his face in the glow of the tv screen.

“Well since you’re awake,” Grantaire continues. “Tell Marius to stop  _aggravating_  me.”

“Mm-mm,” Enjolras hums and he looks at Grantaire with his chin leaning on his chest. “I like hearing you defend things.”

Marius makes an amused sound from behind Éponine’s tangle of hair and Grantaire does his best impression of a man that was just mortally offended.

“So my suffering is entertainment, is it?”

Enjolras smiles. “Yes.”

“Outrageous,” Grantaire says, ignoring the fact that through all of this he hasn’t even really stopped stroking Enjolras’ hair. “Well the least you can do is take my side.”

“Your side on what?” Enjolras mumbles, eyes nearly fluttering shut for a moment.

“Cubism.”

There is a long silence, filled only with the harmonised breathing rhythm of their friends, in which Enjolras looks at Grantaire with a rather sheepish expression on his face.

“…I don’t get cubism.”

Grantaire blinks at him. “How  _dare_  you.”

Somewhere out of Grantaire’s direct sight Marius muffles his laugh in the collar of his cardigan. Enjolras hides his face against Grantaire’s shirt.

“I’m  _sorry-_ ”

“In my own  _home_ ,” Grantaire laments in a wounded whisper, much more emphatic in defending his own honour than that of an art movement that certainly doesn't need it.

“I like you talking about it though,” Enjolras offers sincerely, looking up at him again.

“Don’t you try to excuse your treason.” It’s not easy sounding appropriately slighted without raising his voice or moving. Grantaire makes a very valiant effort all the same. “Never in my  _life_  have I been  _so_  betrayed. And by the love of my  _life_.”

“Mmm,” Enjolras hums, putting his head back down and nudging softly against Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire threads his fingers through his curls again. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” he yawns.

“Some wounds can never be mended, Enjolras.”

Enjolras hums again, slowly slipping into that almost-purring sound he makes when he really can’t help himself. Grantaire can feel it reverberating through his chest. He gives Enjolras a single scolding tug on his hair.

“You’re a disgrace.”

It must be his imagination, but Grantaire could swear he can actually feel Enjolras smile against his chest.


	9. Duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Courfeyrac just challenged Combeferre to a duel for the honour of Jehan, who loves them both.  
> (Beauxbatons AU).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reddotsonwhatyoulove!

The sunllight always seems to shine a little longer in the gardens of Chateau Beauxbatons, at least it seems so to Jehan. At the moment they are basking in the last afternoon sun, sprawled out on the warm flagstones of the fountain.

“You know,” a familiar voice speaks up a little way away. “I can’t look at that fountain anymore without getting flashbacks from nearly getting caught out of bed at one in the morning because you wanted to go swimming.”

Jehan smilingly opens their eyes and turns their head to see Courfeyrac and Combeferre approaching across the lawn. “But didn’t we have a lovely time, Courf?” they say dreamily.

“You do know the magical properties of the water are just a myth, right?” Combeferre says in amusement.

“I couldn’t care less,” Jehan replies, folding their hands underneath their head. “I just wanted to swim naked in a fountain.

They’re rewarded for that with a laugh from Combeferre and a delighted blush dusting over Courfeyrac’s cheeks. The two of them come to sit on the edge of the fountain as well and Jehan looks up at them.

“Where have you been all day?” they lament, despite having passed some absolutely wonderful sun-drenched hours doing nothing. “You both just  _abandoned_  me.”

Courfeyrac makes a loud noise of protest, shaking his head so a ripple of metamorphmagus’ magic flows through it to make it curl up higher. “We were not abandoning you.”

“I was tutoring,” Combeferre says.

“And  _I_  actually had class,” Courf teases, giving a tug on one of Jehan’s ankles.

“Why won’t you just let me be dramatic for a while?” Jehan complains good-naturedly. “There’s no need to be so reasonable. Uncalled for.”

“Now  _that_  is insulting,” Courfeyrac exclaims.

Combeferre laughs but to Jehan’s surprised delight Courfeyrac suddenly rises to his feet, jumping up on the edge of the fountain with a flourish.

“You!” he raises his voice, breaking in harshly on the afternoon tranquillity. “I challenge you to a duel! Let us cross wands!”

“What?” Combeferre laughs, looking up at him.

“A duel!” Courfeyrac repeats. “To prove our deep, passionate,  _dramatic_  affection for this dear creature!”

Jehan sits up with a delighted laugh, but Combeferre doesn’t look terribly impressed.

“No duelling on school grounds outside of classes,” he says meaningfully. “Madame Maxime will have you cleaning the stables for weeks.“ He grins. “Unless, of course, you do it at midnight on the stargazing roof. That’s practically tradition by now. Is that what you want?”

Courfeyrac looks just a little nervous now. Combeferre is an  _excellent_ charm caster.

“No,” Jehan laughs. “Have a  _proper_  magic duel. Entertain me. Dazzle me!”

Combeferre looks at them with puzzled curiosity, but Courfeyrac catches on immediately.

“Now there’s a thought!” he grins, jumping down. He starts swirling his wand in a circular motion, faint flickering flames starting to trail from the tip. “Best display of magic wins. Jehan’s choice. What do you say, Ferre?”

By way of an answer, Combeferre takes out his wand as well. “I don’t think if this should be called a ‘proper’ duel,” he says conversationally, shaking a flurry of sparks from his wand. “This is more of a matched demonstration of skill.”

“No distracting Courf with sexy pedantry,” Jehan scolds, pulling their legs in a cross-legged position.

“Who’s distracted?” Courfeyrac winks and a ring of bright fire spins away from his wand, cartwheeling past Jehan and towards Combeferre.

He doesn’t try to dispel it, merely stepping to the side and waving a cloud of blue sparks towards it. The ring topples sideways and Jehan’s eyes widen in delight. For just a moment the ring looks like a flaming galaxy surrounded by fiery blue stars and then all the fireworks flicker out.

“Oh we should have done this at night,” they sigh. “A tie!” they add insistently. “It’s a tie.”

“How dare you,” Courfeyrac laughs and he raises his wand. “Avis!”

His wand spits out five little birds, that could have been sparrows if not for their brightly coloured feathers. Jehan squeals as they frolic through the air, making three rounds above their head before dissipating in a puff of downy feathers.

“Your move, Ferre.” Courfeyrac looks smug, Jehan loves his expression when he’s triumphant, no matter what face he’s wearing.

“Is it?” Combeferre raises his wand up far higher than Courfeyrac did and at first Jehan can’t even see what the energy of his conjuration is forming. When they do see, they gasp. A large, glossy black raven comes soaring down, swooping around the three of them in a wide circle.

Jehan holds out their hand and the bird draws near to land on their wrist. As soon as the weight of the claws touches their skin it lets out a single croak and vanishes, making Jehan let out a mournful sound in response.

They look up. “Coco, I adore you, but the raven— the raven wins.”

Combeferre grins. “Play to your audience, Courf,” he says casually, putting his wand away.

Courfeyrac’s eyes glint. “Oh really? Jehan, come here. I have something to say that will change your mind.”

Jehan is at his side in two seconds, fully expecting to get something whispered in their ear, but they weren’t prepared for the wand tapping against their messy bun of hair.

“ _Colovaria_.”

Jehan can feel the magic rippling through their hair and in their peripheral vision, one loose lock that’s tumbled down their face colours from auburn to pink.

“Oh!” they gasp, hastily loosening their hair. “Oh I can’t quite see!” They have always envied the tricks Courfeyrac can do with his hair.

“Ferre,” they plead, glancing up at him. “Can you do the thing with the water? So I can see?”

“Emotional manipulation, Courf,” Combeferre says accusingly, but readily taking out his wand again and pointing it at the pool-like basin of the fountain.

“Just playing to my audience,” Courfeyrac singsongs, wrapping one arm tightly around Jehan’s waist in a short hug.

“Hmhm,” Combeferre hums meaningfully and Jehan laughs admiringly at him as the ripples in the water slow down under his wand until it’s a still, shining surface. Nearly a perfect mirror.

“You’re  _so_  good at that,” Jehan says, pulling away from Courfeyrac to lean over the water and admire their hair. They breathe out a delighted sound. Their hair is all streaked with pink and purple. It’s already colouring back to red at the edges, but the colours almost seem to move through their hair when they shake it, just like Courf’s does. It clashes terribly with their own hair colour and doesn’t match the blue school uniform at all. It’s  _lovely_.

“You  _both_  win,” Jehan declares, whirling around to face them. “Come here.”

They press a kiss on Courfeyrac’s cheek, making his skin flush warm. “And you.” They jump up on the edge of the fountain to be tall enough to plant a kiss on Combeferre’s forehead. He smiles, and they both raise a hand to help jump them down again.

Jehan links each of their arms through one of theirs, shaking their head to see the colours of their hair dancing past their face. They beam. “What an  _excellent_  duel.”

Next time they must make sure Bahorel is around as well.


	10. D&D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Enjolras is forced to betray Grantaire and Eponine helps him get payback.  
> (Modern AU).

“And with that you all finally settle down to sleep, weary from the day’s exploits.”

Combeferre hams up his storytelling voice a bit and Courfeyrac looks up fondly from the couch where he’s texting with his brother. He never really got the hang of playing along, but he likes listening to Ferre DM.

“It’s a quiet night for once,” Combeferre continues. “And—”

“I’m not asleep,” Éponine interrupts him. “I wait until the others are and then I get up.”

Joly, Bossuet and Enjolras stare at her, but Grantaire seems to be smirking, so Combeferre smiles and says: “Sure, roll a stealth check.”

“Seventeen.”

“You rolled an eleven,” Enjolras protest.

Éponine flashes him a grin. “Rogue skills, remember?”

“With seventeen you get up without anyone else noticing,” Combeferre says, leaning back amusedly. “What do you do?”

“I’m sneaking to where Enjolras – oh I’m sorry,  _Louis Antoine_   – is sleeping and I open his backpack to steal his Anchor of Justice.”

“You can’t open my backpack,” Enjolras argues. “You don’t know how to undo the knots.”

“No,” she grins, nodding towards Grantaire. “But Celyn does and he showed me.”

“You don’t just get to make up—”

“Oh I  _definitely_  showed her,” Grantaire speaks up.

Bossuet and Joly make delighted scandalized sounds as Enjolras swivels round on his chair to glare at his boyfriend. “Why!”

“Because  _you_  ratted me out back at that temple!” Grantaire points accusingly. “You didn’t think I had  _forgotten_  about that did you? You  _betrayed_  me.”

Enjolras changes colour. “You were trying to steal the holy artefact of whateveritwas!” he splutters. “I’m lawful good! What was I supposed to do?”

Grantaire puts on his best indignant expression. “They broke my ‘not-a-guitar-because-there’s-no-guitars-R’ generic string instrument that I loved more than  _anything_  in this  _cruel_  world.”

Joly huffs and Grantaire quickly puts a hand on his arm. “Except for you Joly, my dwarf-ass would die for your halfling, we’ve established this.”

“Thank you,” Joly hums. “If you hurt Holly’s feelings I’ll be upset with you.”

“Can we get back to the part where my boyfriend is bribing a rogue to burgle me?”

“He’s not your boyfriend in-game  _yet_ ,” Éponine corrects smugly. “And he didn’t bribe me, I’m doing this for fun and friendships. Also, technically I’m not breaking and entering, so it’s not burglary, I’m just robbing you.”

Enjolras glares. “Not if I stop you.” He looks at Combeferre. “Don’t I get to do something to stop her?”

“You’re asleep,” Combeferre smirks. “You can roll a perception check to see if you’ll wake up.”

Bossuet leans on Enjolras’ shoulder as he rolls. “Two,” he winces. Enjolras sighs.

“Yeah, you don’t notice a thing,” Combeferre decides. “Éponine, go ahead.”

“I wrap the anchor in my cloth of darkness so he can’t find it and hide it in my satchel. Then I actually go sleep.”

“Alright, you lay back down, no one noticed anything. You now have Louis’ holy symbol, but you’re not able to use it. No more paladin spells for you though, Enj, until you get it back,” Combeferre reminds him.

“Oh you’ll get it back,” Éponine grins. “Eventually.” And she and Grantaire exchange a look of eerily synchronised mischief.

“What are you going to  _do_?” For a moment Enjolras looks genuinely horrified.

“Nothing, the questions is what our petty little bard is going to do,” Éponine hums.

“What indeed, what indeed,” Grantaire singsongs, tipping dangerously far back on his chair.

Enjolras hasn’t looked this sulky since they had to choose between saving a group of innocent villagers and capturing an enemy informant. “Well at least I know you’ll be giving it to him then.”

“You do, but Louis does not,” Combeferre says. “And he has no reason to suspect either of them at this time. What’s more, you don’t even know the anchor is missing. At the moment you’re all still asleep.”

“Yeah, let’s move on to next morning,” Grantaire grins. “I’m suddenly  _really_  looking forward to the next stage of this journey.”

Enjolras mutters something under his breath and Grantaire grins wider.

“Payback’s a bitch, Louis.” He winks at Enjolras, who huffs, but can’t quite hide his smile.

“I’d like to give Ponine credit for chaotic trickster vibes,” Courfayrac speaks up from the couch. “But I think you’re just trying to prevent our rightness paladin and our flippant bard from ending up in a fantasy broom closet somewhere.”

“Broom closets do not need to be magical to exist in this—” Combeferre rolls his eyes, but Courfeyrac is too busy grinning at Éponine who snots:

“No kidding, I get enough of  _that_  in real life.”

“Slander,” Grantaire protests, leaning over to kiss Enjolras’ cheek.

“Get on with the game so I can start getting pissed at his imaginary counterpart,” Enjolras demands, giving Grantaire a slight push and then a kiss back.

“Don’t forget, you’re a holy man,” Bossuet smiles, leaning sweetly on his elbows.

“We’ll see about that,” Enjolras mutters darkly and Grantaire, behind his back, treats Joly to the triumphantly besotted smile of a guy that is finally sure he has  _thoroughly_  dragged his partner into D&D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Collection complete!
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


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